


Crawl Inside This Second Skin

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, M/M, Marking, Painplay, Razors, Scarification, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 08:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17362406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Bruises fade. Sam wants forever.





	Crawl Inside This Second Skin

Sam’s ticklish.

He has been since forever, something Dean has taken advantage of in the worst moments (during sparring, while Sam is trying to sneak-grab the remote from a dozing Dad, and while Dean is sunk seven-odd inches inside of Sam just so he can feel him twitch around his dick). But there are Sacred Times, ones where Sam doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t even consider that Dean would touch him in a way that would make Sam all jumpy and giggly.

Post-fuck with jizz leaking out of his ass is definitely one of those times.

Sam feels a curled finger stroke over the still mortifyingly smooth skin of his inner thigh, and his whole body twitches. He jerks under the touch, his back arching, but he doesn’t move the arm he’s got slung over his face to block out the late afternoon sun blaring in through the crooked blinds.

“Nghhh,” he whines, a warning.

He can hear Dean’s grin, hear the soft tuck of his lips as he exhales cigarette smoke up into the already hazy room.

Dean thinks smoking after sex is required, it seems. He keeps a pack of cigarettes in his duffel that always dwindles quickly whenever Dad goes away for awhile.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles. But he doesn’t stop touching.

That finger travels farther up Sam’s inner thigh, getting perilously close to the hollowed junction where it connects with his hip. Sam’s tummy convulses, just a couple of jerky movements, and heat spreads over his face when he feels his spent little cock shift on his belly.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, sounding a little more vulnerable than he’d like.

“Just thinkin’.” Dean shifts beside him on the bed, but Sam’s too comfortable and trusts him too much to look over. He feels Dean’s cheek nestle in where he’d just been petting on the innermost part of Sam’s thigh, feels the scratch of his scant facial hair when he nuzzles into the delicate, pale skin.

Sam’s belly sucks in hard just as it swoops real low inside. He doesn’t even realize that his right hand slides down and into Dean’s sweaty hair. He can feel the heat of Dean’s breath on his empty, mostly hairless balls. It makes him want nasty things.

“About what?” Sam prompts.

“About this body of yours. What it used to look like. When I’d blow raspberries on this part of your leg when you were a baby. You’d laugh so loud, people next door at the motels used to come over to see you. You had the cutest fuckin’ laugh.”

Sam’s thirteen, so rolling his eyes is a requirement. But the dimple that peeks through is all brother-love.

“Gross. Babies,” Sam replies.

“And you got longer and longer and skinnier and skinnier. And now you’re my little string bean.” Dean’s lips press in soft and damp and so warm, and Sam’s so glad the way his heart is racing is his own secret. He tightens his grip on Dean’s hair and fights not to squirm.

“You think I’m too skinny?” he asks. Just to be difficult.

“Think you’re perfect.” Another kiss, this one more husband than boyfriend, the heat of it lasting long after Dean’s mouth moves to Sam’s balls, to his creamy, used hole. Sam spreads his legs wider, gives him all the room he needs. Dean’s so sweet after he fucks Sam’s brains out.

 

\--

They’re hurrying to get ready a couple of hours later when Dad gets back and tells them they’ve gotta beat it, and it’s only in time crunches like this that it’s totally normal for Sam and Dean to be in the bathroom together when Dad’s here.

Sam’s naked and brushing his ever-growing hair in the steamed-up mirror while Dean shaves beside him, leaning forward to watch each careful stroke of his disposable razor. Sam thinks he’s being sneaky with how intently he’s watching his brother shave.

He blinks out of it when he sees Dean’s smirk. Frowns at his own reflection and drags the cheap dollar store brush through his tangles. He forgot to use conditioner.

“Left a mark,” Dean says. Nods vaguely at Sam’s reflected body in the mirror as his eyes drag over Sam like he bought and paid for him. 

Sam glances down at his bony, scrawny self, noting the faint bruises on his hipbones and how pink his dick is after Dean made him come that fifth time. It’s not until Dean reaches over and touches with the back of his plastic razor on the inside of Sam’s thigh that he realizes. Sees it.

The mouth-shaped bruise right in that spot Dean had been preoccupied with earlier. It’s a deep, obsession-pink, well on its way to purpley black because Dean had used teeth as well as lips and tongue. 

Dean’s behind him now, pressing in against Sam’s naked body while he’s wearing jeans. He stares into Sam’s eyes in the mirror as he slides a hand down his stomach and in between his legs, pressing hard on the bruise, drawing up an ache that makes Sam nearly gasp. He melts back against his brother.

“Mine,” Dean says quietly against the back of his head, strong fingers gripping that scant flesh, deepening the bruise there until Sam’s got tears pricking at his eyes. He nods in reply, can’t manage any words right now, and it hurts so bad that he feel a sob bubbling up as Dean squeezes and squeezes but finally lets go.

“Shake a leg!” Dad calls from the main room, his big fist pounding tiredly against the door in warning. They break apart like a wishbone, and Dean takes most of Sam with him when he goes.

\--

Dad’s, like, overly there for the next week or so, and the bruise on the inside of Sam’s thigh fades to that gorgeous, sickly purple-green-yellow that looks so disgusting and beautiful and like the death throes of violence. He squeezes at it while he’s in the shower and in the back seat all alone, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.

Sam is so not above pouting.

“Not my fault,” Dean pants into Sam’s greasy hair as he pumps into him from behind in the handicap stall at the Steak ‘n Shake in Lebanon, Missouri. Dad’s outside on the pay phone with Caleb, and Dean can come in Sam’s ass in under three minutes. “He’s been around since--”

“Shut up,” Sam huffs back, face plastered against Josh Chatham sucks dog dicks carved into peeling red paint, his leaky dick in one hand, Dean’s wrist clasped in the other. He guides Dean’s hand down between his legs, just above where his jeans and grass green Fruit of the Looms are shoved around his thighs. Pushes until Dean touches over the remnants of the bruise, and the way he quakes on Dean’s cock must be motivation enough to grab hold of that flesh as rough as he can while he finishes off inside of his little brother.

\--

It’s not enough.

Dad finally leaves the next morning, giving them orders to run at least three miles a day and time themselves. Dean figured out years ago how many hours of sex equals a mile run. They’re up to cross country by now.

Sam’s straddling Dean’s lap, his guts full of dick, and he stops mid-bounce and stares down at Dean, his eyes wild, hair in his eyes. He’s breathing hard, hands braced on Dean’s firm chest.

“Hey,” Dean grunts, grabbing hold of Sam’s hips and trying to make him ride. “Why’d you--”

“I need more,” Sam tells him, like Dean’s privy to the silent debate Sam’s been having with himself for the last few days. Dean frowns up at him, and after a couple of seconds’ worth of hesitation, tries to tuck two fingers into Sam’s ass alongside his dick.

“N-No,” Sam grits out reluctantly, sad to feel those fingers retreat, because they were headed right for his prostate. “Like… like.”

He reaches down to touch himself, stroking shyly over the faint bruise inside his thigh.

“Here.”

Dean’s always very helpful when he’s inside of Sam, always wants to Problem Solve and Figure It Out. Whatever the fuck Sam needs or wants, because Dean needs to nut. Hard. Sam figured that out when he was newly in double digits.

“What do you need?” Dean asks, no judgement, no interrogation. He pinches at that skin meanly, making Sam tighten up so good around him as he hisses. 

He’d pocketed the X-ACTO knife at WalMart in Branson, figuring he could talk Dean into it if they did it with something vaguely medical and brand new. 

He’s gotten off to the thought of Dean using his pocket knife, but Dean would never go for it. Too protective and smart for that.

He presses the pen-shaped tool into Dean’s hand. Forces himself to meet his eyes.

“Mark me,” Sam says, like it’s an order, like he’s not begging. He feels Dean’s real reaction inside of him, feels the flex and throb of his cock, the imagined warmth of his leaked slick as it gets wetter where he’s got his brother nestled in his body. 

Dean grips the little blade like a weapon, his cheeks pink in two dots on the apples, his green eyes flashing like he’s on a hunt and Sam’s the prey. That look can make Sam come untouched. No problem.

“With what?” Dean asks. He uncaps the blade. Clamps his left hand on Sam’s skinny thigh.

“Write whatever you want,” Sam tells him, so submissive it’s embarrassing. He arches his back, offering his skinny little body up for Dean’s razor. “Just… just--”

“Here.” Dean digs his thumb into the spot, their spot, and Sam’s stiff little cock lifts up from where it’s sliming up Dean’s belly and slaps back against Sam’s own. “I know.”

He licks his lips, soothing over the bruise that’s nearly gone again.

“It’s a dangerous spot to cut, Sammy,” he says, but he’s already eyeing it, already measuring and deciding. “Lots of arteries and tendons and shit.”

“You’ll be careful,” Sam replies, like they’re not talking about him bleeding out as he squats on his brother’s dick. He wants to make Dean promise to finish off inside of him before he calls 911, if anything happens.

Dean grunts, holding the little knife in his right hand like a pen and Sam’s a fresh sheet of paper.

“Hold still.”

Sam closes his eyes and leans back, bracing his hands on Dean’s thighs just above his knees. It doesn’t feel like anything at first, just a faint burning on the surface of his skin, but the pain settles in after just a few seconds.

He lets out a whimper that makes Dean fatten inside of him again.

“Be still, Sammy,” Dean grits out, squeezing his thigh hard in warning. Sam draws his bottom lip into his mouth to suck on, and he can’t even apologize for the clear puddle he’s leaking on Dean’s stomach.

There are two, digging stabs into the meat of his thigh, two punctures spaced about an inch apart that Dean carves out last, and it’s such a delicious pain that Sam’s hips jerk, grinding on Dean’s dick in a way that nudges him against his favorite place inside.

“Goddamnit, kid.” Dean doesn’t sound mad, just sounds way too turned on and indulgent, and Sam looks down at him after that, forcing his eyes to open and meet his brothers. Dean smirks at him. “Done. You’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

A glance down proves that Dean’s right. He’s oozing red all over Dean’s lower belly, the warm run of it sliding down the curve of his hip and staining the sheets. 

“We’ll just tell Dad that you finally got your period,” Dean says, shark-grinning at Sam and barely reacting to the way Sam slaps his chest like a little girl on the playground. 

“What does it say?” Sam asks, curling down to try and squint in the low lamplight, in the shadows of his inner thighs.

“Same thing’s carved into the car.” Dean presses the slippery knife into Sam’s palm, the air between them taking on the salt-copper scent of blood. Sam’s eyes widen and find Dean’s. He feels that thumb pressing against the initials now carved into his skin. “Cause you’re mine, too. Aren’t you?”

Sam nods, shy all of a sudden, feeling more than a little Lolita as he smiles up at Dean from under his lashes. He bites his bottom lip to keep from smiling.

“C’mon, Sammy.” So gentle and unlike the slap Dean brings down on his ass. “My turn.”

Sam doesn’t have to ask what he means. Doesn’t have to ask if he’s sure, but his heart is racing like he doesn’t deserve to be doing this anyway. He grips the blade in his hand and chews on his bottom lip until he tastes blood.

“Where?” he asks.

Dean shrugs, folding his arms back behind his pillowed head like Sam’s about to suck his dick instead of carve his initials into him like he’s a fucking tree trunk.

“Dealer’s choice.”

Sam looks over his potential canvas, over the most beautiful body he’s ever seen. Over the miles and miles of peachy-pale, freckled skin littered with scars and scratches and bruises, some from hunts, some from Sam, all of them with a story that most people will never know. 

But Sam knows them all.

“I love you,” he says, blurts out like it’s part of the blood that won’t stop seeping out of him. He finds the spot. Dean’s hand strokes up over his flank and down to his hip where he squeezes and holds on.

“Don’t get sappy on me before you carve me up like a Thanksgiving turkey,” he teases Sam, bloody thumb rubbing in circles at the knotty jut of Sam’s missed-meals hipbone.

Sam hides the in-love stain on his cheeks under the shaggy fall of his hair as he curls down over his brother’s body and starts to cut into it.

Dean tenses under him, that hand tightening on his hip.

“Fuck, that’s sharp,” he mumbles. Sam smirks, glances up at him.

“Pussy.”

The slap Dean brings down on Sam’s ass is definitely gonna leave a mark.

“Fuckin’ painslut,” Dean shoots back, driving his hips up into Sam’s ass, rooting his dick in deeper where Sam is bone-dry except Dean’s precome, just the way Sam likes it. He sucks on his bloody lip and doesn’t hold in his grin this time as he refocuses on the letters, on their precision and spacing.

This is forever, after all.

The twisting stabs of the periods between the S and the W make Dean grunt, make him grip Sam’s ass with ten bitten-down fingernails, and Sam would swear that he softens a little inside of him.

“Jesus Christ, you fuckin’ sadist,” he gripes, craning to see where Sam’s been cutting into him. “You done yet?”

“I’m done,” Sam says, throwing the blade onto the nightstand, not noticing or caring that blood splatters across the clock there, the lamp. He sucks his Dean-bloodied fingers into his mouth and nurses on them as he leans back to let Dean see.

It’s hard to see under the mess of blood, but it’s there: Sam’s initials that match up with Dean’s on his own body, that line up exactly when they’re just like this, when Sam’s on top of Dean and seated on his cock. He shows him by lowering back down with all his weight and grinding down on top of him, letting their new, future scars press and rub together, their blood smearing, mingling.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding up the sides of Sam’s small body, gripping him hard enough to pull Sam into a deep, languid arch. “That’s gonna scar. That’s… that’s gonna last, Sammy.”

Sam nods again, curling down over Dean’s body and spreading his thighs, knees digging into the bloody sheets so they can press together as tight as possible, the fresh cuts dragging together and burning hot, hurting in a way that makes Sam very aware of his own heartbeat, of the heat in Dean’s body, of the fact that his brother is pressed up inside of him in a place that only he’s ever been, that he’s claimed Sam on the outside just like he always has on the inside.

“Forever,” Sam sighs against Dean’s mouth, stretching out long on top of his brother and letting Dean’s hands guide him to move. Dean snaps up and bites at Sam’s mouth to start the kiss, sucking so hard that the torn flesh on Sam’s lip opens up, feeds Dean fresh blood along with his spit. The squelch of blood on their rubbing, joined carvings is obscenely loud, and it makes Dean fuck up harder into Sam’s body, drives him in deeper, and when Dean digs in and pulses heat inside of him, it completes the ritual.


End file.
